Free T. Lynn Ocean - Jersey Barnes 03 - Southern Peril by T. Lynn Ocean Page B

he’d been getting out to explore Wilmington’s popular sights. He sure was, he lied. Trish had already told me otherwise. The drilling stopped, and Morgan glanced over his shoulder. He really wanted to know what was inside that safe. So did I. We heard pounding sounds and then silence. More drilling. More silence. We made small talk about Argo’s menu until the safe expert appeared.
    “She’s open. You want to take a look before I install a new dial ring and lock?”
    “That’s okay,” Morgan said, fast. “You’ve got my credit card info, so just leave an invoice on my desk. Don’t worry about fixing it right now.”
    “Cheaper for you if I go ahead and do it while I’m here. That way you can use the safe. Otherwise, it’s a useless steel box.”
    Morgan shook his head. “I’d rather you come back later. The extra charge is fine.”
    “Your call.” The fellow shrugged and headed into the kitchen. “I’ll let myself out the back.”
    Morgan thanked him and turned back to me. “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got a lot to do. And I’d like to check out the contents of the safe in private. There could be family stuff in there.”
    I nodded. There could be.
    “So if there’s nothing else, then…” He stood and waited for me to do the same.
    Maybe I should have gone with the bimbette cover after all. Then I could have shouted something like “Finders keepers!” andraced him to the open safe. I decided that waiting in the hearse would be the next best thing. At least I could see if he hauled anything out when he left. I stalled a bit longer to see if he’d change his mind, but he didn’t and I gave up. When Morgan walked me to the back door, we came face-to-face with a man and a gun, both aimed our way.
    “Hold it! That’s far enough.” The weapon was a blued revolver, maybe a .38. Its owner was a stocky, light-skinned thug type with dirty blond hair, longish and tucked behind the ears. Well, one ear, anyway. The other one was half gone from the lobe up, as though somebody bit it off. A tattoo of a clock without hands surrounded by some sort of symbol—the kind of crude prison artwork created with a makeshift tattoo gun and ink from a ballpoint pen—decorated one forearm. His grip on the gun told me he was quite familiar with how to use it.
    Hands up, I made my eyes go wide and stuck out my boobs. Morgan swayed and caught himself against a storage rack of foodstuffs. “Who are you?”
    “An old friend of your father’s,” Earless said, and shrugged the gun my way. “Who’s she?”
    “Nobody.” Morgan’s face paled, as much as a black man’s can. “Just a woman I know.”
    Earless’s eyes roved over me and he grinned. “Like father, like son. You both go for the white meat.”
    “My mother wasn’t a piece of meat.” Morgan emitted something near to a growl and charged Earless. The man backhanded Morgan across the face with the butt of the handgun. Morgan went down but kept talking. “Don’t talk about my mother that way!”
    “Rosemary was a damn good salesperson, too. Your mother knew how to work the rich bitch crowd, I’ll give her that.”
    Blood ran down Morgan’s chin from a cut lip. He pushed himself off the ground. “What are you talking about?”
    “Shut up and walk over there to that cooler, nice and easy. Both a you.”
    Morgan’s entire body shook. “What are you talking about, working the rich bitch crowd? Answer me!”
    The gun shrugged, just barely. “You really don’t know?”
    “Know what?”
    Earless nodded to himself. “To the cooler. Now!”
    The thug was going to lock us in the freezer? Pulleeze. He’d been watching too many bad-guy movies. Walking to the cooler, Morgan swayed but kept going, planting each foot carefully like a drunk. After kicking off my sandals, I followed with bare feet, wondering if he was an alcoholic. I hadn’t smelled any booze on his breath. Strangely, his equilibrium was anything but settled. Maybe he had a